


the criminal and the eccentric

by pheraentales



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheraentales/pseuds/pheraentales
Summary: Kitagawa Yusuke was an upcoming artist who's life should have ended when he took a fatal hit for the leader of the Phantom Thieves. Instead, he is given the chance to live a second life as someone he never wanted to be.





	1. Chapter 1

Kitagawa Yusuke probably has the worst luck.

The weather forecast had predicted skies as clear as the water’s surface in a well-kept pond. There were not supposed to be clouds choking out the sun’s early rays. Nor was there supposed to be an endless rampage of a storm plowing the very city of Shibuya and its neighboring prefectures. But weather itself could be fickle. Just like the schedule he had been assigned that day.

Yusuke certainly didn’t want to be standing beneath the roof of a train station with two to three canvases tucked under his arm loosely covered by his jacket as a makeshift tarp, but life had other plans. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave the studio without fetching an umbrella from the stand by the door. As he steps onto the pavement of Station Square, the melody of the rain blasts against his ears. His pace is hurried, wishing canvas wasn’t nearly as heavy as they were so he could use his bag for a makeshift umbrella, and he’s more than aware that he’s _soaked_ within seconds of tumbling out from the station.

Now Yusuke wasn’t the type of artist who demanded extra pay for unforeseen casualties. And for what it was worth, rain was _not_ a causality. If _anything_ was going to be ruined, it would be the edges of the canvas, streaking oil across the body of the painting, and thus ruining another composition—

—he did _not_ need to think of that.

Besides, any harm brought to the work would more than likely be covered by the company who owned them.

He’s frequented this place before, has come to familiarize himself with its owner and her friends. Compared to the modern buildings with glass windows and metal structures, Okumura Café is fragile, as if the tiniest gust of wind would rip apart the shingles and sink its teeth into its pastel-streaked walls. It’s tucked between an open alley and a convenience store. A long time ago, there was a fast food burger store in the spot where Okumura stands today. He wonders if they were connected.

The building itself is the shyest dye of pink he could ever imagine, breaching on the color white

(white, which is _indeed_ a color, dear physicists, and if they wanted to argue, he had an entire arsenal of reports to back up his argument)

with its tiny windows and violet, wooden door. Two fabric roofs loom over the bundle of flowers perched on the windowsills. The petals dip up and down to the rain’s jumbled tempo, rain sliding down the stems’ throats. Their owner has improved with rearranging, it would seem. Modest blues, purples, and pinks, he had insisted on an earlier visit, to compliment the walls and overall aesthetic of the type of café she was searching for. Yusuke was not a flower arranger, but she showed her appreciation in the form of a free cup of coffee.

He hears the bell sing his arrival. The warmth and smell of the café is refreshing against the harsh cold of outside. To the left is a row of white topped tables, four dark chairs at each. Pinned to the walls are portraits of small to medium sizes at intervals. There are a total of three still-life paintings of a vase of flowers, a field, and a tea set. He does not recognize the artist, but they’ve been here for as long as he can remember; Okumura must have some connection with them.

On his right is the bar with an arsenal of dishware resting on the shelves behind it. He recognizes the glass case at the other end of the island stocked with pastries and other concoctions. Yusuke hears a voice on the other side of the door at the back of the building. Though she had insisted it was alright if _he_ were to walk into the “Staff Only” zone, Yusuke much preferred to be out of her way.

Okumura Haru is a fine young lady, always donning the classiest outfits from a ruffled shirt and skirt combo, to a dress that hugged her frame without being revealing.

(Personally, he believes a darker shade of blue would have been more fitting than the pale cyan dress she wears today. But he can hold his tongue when someone is kind.)

Her curly, light auburn hair brushes her cheeks with the right turn of her head, doe eyes brightening the minute they land on him. “Kitagawa-kun!” her lips curve into a delicate smile as she hurries over (He’s given a mere handful of seconds to enjoy her welcoming aura when it flickers). “Where’s your umbrella?”

“I was told it was going to be sunny this afternoon,” he answers plainly. It certainly hadn’t been the first time he placed all his trust into a single forecast.

Okumura hums thoughtfully in response. After looking him over once more, she guides further into the café, gesturing at one of the black-topped stools. “Please, take a seat. I’ll get you a towel so you can dry off.”

He leans the paintings against the wall of the bar, careful to peel back his jacket and hang it on the back of his seat. His shoulders slump in relief. The paint had yet to bleed across the surface, and now that it was tucked away from outside, it was one less thing to worry about. One of the paintings is of late baroque style, rococo. He notices the curved and asymmetric brush strokes its creator used, sees it in the wisps of white clouds and the greens and yellows of an arched hill. The details put into the clothing are nothing short of admirable, picking up on the fold in the pink fabric of a woman’s skirt and the dark coattails of the adjacent man.

It would be wrong to pin them on the same wall as the still-life, given these were illustrated in a much different style. They would only succeed in ruining the unity.

Yusuke starts just slightly when the towel is slapped on the counter. Gently, of course, but enough to yank his attention away from scrutinizing. “Thank you,” he says, unfolding it to scrub at his face, dab lightly at where the rain had begun to spill into the collar of his shirt. It seems long hair was not enough to keep the back of one’s neck dry, contrary to belief.

“Would you like something to drink, Kitagawa-kun? It’s the least I can do for calling your agent on such notice.”

Earlier that morning, he had settled for boring and bland dark coffee back at the studio. He was no barista, and the cringeworthy taste proved this. Besides... “I appreciate your generosity, Okumura-san,” he’s honest, standing from his seat to carry one of the paintings to an empty spot on the wall diagonal from the front door. “I still owe you payment for the last one.”

He is not able to see the slight dejection that flits across her face. “I don’t mind,” she counters, but her next words are not about beverages. “Oh, I forgot to put in the nails this morning. Excuse me.”

Yusuke looks over his shoulder just to see her retreat into the storage room. As soon as he lowers it from the wall, the bell rings a second time that afternoon.

Having a casual discussion with Okumura’s regulars is not something he would ever consider. Out of the two of them, he recognizes one. She’s around Okumura’s age with a smooth, rounded face, short dark brown hair and hard, red eyes. Her badge sits proudly on the pale blue of her uniform, cap pinched between her fingers. She gives a curt nod in Yusuke’s direction when their eyes catch. As for her partner...

Darker clothes, a palette of muddy browns and blacks, he does not wear a badge like her, but Yusuke does notice the walkie-talkie hanging from his belt. Was he training with her...? Although his hair is a lighter shade, his eyes are just like hers, and a part of him wonders if they were related...

“Hello there,” he greets pleasantly.

...Most likely not. “Hrm,” Yusuke’s intention isn’t to brush him off, but he does so anyway. This painting would have to be hung up later, it would seem. He doesn’t pay attention to the pictures on the remaining two, hoisting them up towards the little corner. Their gaze rests on them as he carefully lines them against the wall.

“You know each other?” the woman speaks.

“Mako-chan!” Okumura’s voice cuts off any potential response. There’s the sound of something hard being set on the counter followed by the tinkling of metal pieces. The hammer and nails. “...Akechi-kun too?” A pause of silence beats around the room, and Yusuke can’t keep his attention glued to the three canvases for much longer.

‘Mako-chan’ has changed, her face less tense than when she had first walked in. “I hope you don’t mind us stopping in.”

“Of course not. Is everything okay?”

Akechi chuckles lightly. “I’ll leave this to you, Niijima-san.” His interest was as malleable as a child’s. Yusuke tries to listen to the bits of conversation between Okumura and Niijima, but Akechi ogling at the paintings was distracting, to say the least. Though it was not Yusuke’s art, he feels the need to turn them from Akechi’s curious stare. They hadn’t even been hung up, and they had been commissioned by one Okumura Haru, not him; the first person to see them on the walls should be this café’s owner.

When his gaze lingers too long on the center painting, Yusuke’s brows knit together disapprovingly. “May I help you?”

“Ah, my apologies,” Akechi backpedals. “It’s not often I see people request late baroque artwork. I hear pop art and abstract are the go-to nowadays – especially in schools and universities,” he pauses, briefly. “Are they yours?”

Hm. Well, he seems to know more than just one art style. “No. They were made by...”

(A young girl who had yet to reach adulthood. She had not left anything beyond her grade level, and yet her painting of the girl with her hands cupped as if to cradle the yellowing moon had received request upon request. Everyone wanted it on their walls, but in the end, it was Okumura who won out. A beautiful, emerald green painting swallowed by the backdrop of lighter colors.)

“...a high school student.”

Which he was not. Or rather, he no longer was.

“Interesting,” Akechi muses. “Although admittedly, I’m more curious about you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you occasionally host the tours at Ueno Museum, yes?”

Something prickles at the back of his mind, a warning of sorts. It tells him to answer the question properly, but to be modest and wear the face he puts on for these ‘tours’ so casually mentioned. If Niijima’s uniform was anything to go by, then Akechi was in the same department, or at least a leaf clinging to the same branch.

Niijima’s voice flitters to the corner he’s in with Akechi. There are keywords (investigation, something-Jaya, a website of sorts) that filter in and out of his ears, but Okumura does not seem to have the answers she needs – that is as far as he hears of their conversation.

“Yes,” Yusuke answers cautiously. Plainly.

Akechi nods. “I thought so. I must admit, I’m envious of your knowledge of each exhibit’s history. That aside, surely someone with your experience has seen many faces. I do believe even art students have taken an interest in the recent happenings. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

Paintings forgotten, he turns to Akechi fully. “You will have to clarify. I’m afraid I don’t have any understanding of what you are saying.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere,” and then he points a finger to the left canvas. “You should take a closer look at this one. It doesn’t quite match up with the composition of the others, does it?”

No. It does not: A young woman sitting up in a field of grass with a winding yellow road in the background. The brush strokes do not weave like they do on the rococo paintings. It’s an impressionist piece, and how could he have grabbed the wrong one? What sort of amateur mistake had he made? His internal clock was urging him to hurry back to the studio or Ueno or _somewhere,_ and he had grabbed someone else’s commission. Even a _middle school_ student would be able to differentiate from a clutch of baroque and impressionism. Truly where was his head?

“I happen to know the person who bought this,” Akechi continues as Yusuke scrambles to pull it from the wall. “If you would allow it, I’ll gladly take you to them.”

That sounds highly suspicious. Yusuke clamps down on his tongue against the words. “The location alone will do,” his bruised pride speaks for him.

Niijima’s voice breaks into their conversation. “Is there something wrong, Akechi-kun?”

And in an act of recklessness, Yusuke finds himself answering _for_ him. “I have to go. Forgive me, Okumura-san, but I may have left one of your paintings back in Ueno.”

“Please don’t worry about that, Kitagawa-kun,” Okumura insists, rising to her feet when he pushes past Akechi to the entrance, canvas crammed under his arm. “It’s still raining—”

“Kitagawa is just going to Yongen-Jaya,” Akechi substitutes, looking so sure of himself.

 _That_ grabs Niijima’s attention. “Yogen-Jaya?” she echoes with a quirked eyebrow.

“Why yes. Surely it’s safe for someone like Kitagawa-kun, so long as he takes the train before night.” ( _What?_ ) “Is there any other business he would have in that district?”

“Akechi—”

Yusuke twists the handle. There are a bundle of questions twisting around in his mind, but he doesn’t wish to waste any more time at this café. At least not while Akechi was there. He should have expected someone in his line of work would have little to no regards for personal matters. Not that he could fault him for it. Not _all_ of it, at least.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he tells Akechi, ( _What assistance?_ ) then to Niijima and Okumura: “I will return with your painting. This won’t happen again.”

Maybe Okumura calls out his name, but he doesn’t stop, retracing his steps back to the station. He’s at the end of Central Street when he realizes he’s left his jacket hanging on the back of that bar seat as well as his bag. At the least, his Suica card is still tucked safely in his jeans pocket along with the small amount of cash crammed into his wallet.

Stepping into the train cart on the JR Line, Yusuke concludes that he isn’t ‘probably’ unlucky; he _is_ unlucky. Bringing the very storm with him from Okumura’s Café to the train ride and out onto Yongen-Jaya was not something a normal, ‘lucky’ person could do. It took a certain amount of talent to bring such misfortune, and by God did he have it.

There were two things wrong with this image. One, he brought two out of the three paintings to Okumura; two, he left his jacket and bag; three, he was in Yongen-Jaya as Akechi had ‘seemingly’ hinted at him to go to, but _who_ purchased the painting?

Frustration wells in his gut as he looks down the depressing backstreets of Yongen. Two amateur mistakes in one day, and he could blame it on the lack of sleep or the weather, but the reality was, he wanted the day to end. A day without being assigned to Ueno’s museum meant there was nothing to do except attend the mandatory meeting with an agent about messing up the paintings.

And by the time the police officer (holding an umbrella, no less) standing by the lamp post notices him, Yusuke’s grown tired of uniform. “What’s wrong? Looking for someone?”

Had it been that obvious? “Yes, but I’m not sure who.”

Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say. The officer now regards him with minor suspicion. “Well if you don’t know, you should find somewhere to stay indoors until you do. Leblanc should still be open at this time.”

Yusuke blinks. “Leblanc?”

“Not surprised you’ve never heard of it,” he sighs. “Look, you can’t miss it. Just do me a favor and get out of the rain.”

Rather unpleasant, but not completely useless either. Yusuke does as he’s instructed, making way down the backstreets. His arm and fingers begin to ache in protest by the time he reaches the building. The title ‘Leblanc’ is not printed in neon letters or extravagant font. Instead, it is stenciled on the red-and-white overhang. An equally red sign boasting OPEN hangs loosely on the door. The panels of the door windows are constructed of blurry glass, making it impossible to look in.

Much like Okumura’s Café, this one has a bell over the door as well.

And, just like her café, its interior follows the same layout: Bar to the right, booths (not tables, it would seem) to the left. Suspended above the end booths are two lamps with stain glass panels, spilling buttery light onto the tables. There is less pastel and more homely colors, and whatever he envisioned for a café with the name “Leblanc”, it certainly wasn’t _this_.

But Yusuke didn’t dislike it.

It felt safe, less of the star Okumura’s was and more like a campfire, but one he could see himself sitting around on the occasional night if permitted.

He’s too busy drinking in the sights that he nearly drops the painting in surprise when someone speaks.

“Welcome,” and attached to that voice is a young man, dark hair, dark eyes, and glasses. (The owner? A worker?) His face is unreadable, and Yusuke doesn’t even _know_ this person, but he fits the very element of this style of café. Maybe it was the dark green apron. “What’ll it be?”

Yusuke shuffles the canvas cradled awkwardly in his arm. “I need a place to stay.”

“I... see,” The barista blinks slowly, clearing his throat when his voice catches on the last word. “You are aware this is a café and not an inn, right?”

Ah. Wrong phrasing. His face feels warm from embarrassment. “Well, it is comfortable enough to be an inn,” he admits truthfully, blush easing out of his neck. “Simply put I’m looking for someone, but I don’t know who.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

There’s a lilt to his voice, but Yusuke doesn’t know what it means. Was he implying something? “Yes,” and then he’s placing the painting on the adjacent table, sliding into the booth. “If my being here is an issue, I will take my leave.”

“No, you’re fine,” he assures, attention drawn to the painting from where he stands behind the counter. “Is this a gift for someone?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “It _is_ for someone, but it is certainly not a gift. I’m simply the delivery boy.” The words leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He _was_ running from place to place like a messenger pigeon when he should be working on his own artwork. His fingers were itching to hold a brush despite the strain he put on them from hoisting canvases across different train lines. Then, quickly, he adds, “I did not draw it either.”

“ _Can_ you draw?”

He fixes Barista with a narrowed look. “But of course. Art is my entire life,” Yusuke pauses. “Although recently I haven’t created anything worth sharing.”

Now it’s his turn to frown. “I somehow doubt that. We’re our own worst critics and whatever you create, someone else will love it.”

He... He’s not sure what to say to that.

‘ _Worst critic, huh..._?’

Even the warmth of this café is different from the one in Shibuya. It’s more comforting, like a tender blanket draped over his shoulders than standing next to a heater. The endless rows of coffee bean jars watch him carefully, and beneath their scent he picks up on something else. Something spicier...

He perks his head up, looking towards the corner of the room where a fridge and stove sit across from one another. “Curry?” he suggests.

“Yeah,” the barista almost looks impressed. “It’s 500 yen for a bowl though.”

His stomach growls at the price albeit yearning for the food, but Yusuke shakes his head. “No thank you...” he starts at the vibration of his phone against his rear and the cushioned booth. Fishing it out of his pocket, the screen lights to life.

 **OKUMURA [14:39].** Kitagawa-kun? You forgot some of your things here.

 **OKUMURA [14:40].** Would you like to meet up later? I can deliver them to you as soon as I close shop.

A sigh edges itself out of him as he slides the screen to respond.

 **YUSUKE [14:42].** Thank you. I will

**[NEW NOTIFICATION].**

**HAYASHI HOLDINGS [14:43].** Yusuke, we found one of the paintings commissioned by Okumura Haru in the backroom.

 **HAYASHI HOLDINGS [14:45].** Bring the painting back Ueno. We’ll handle the rest of her deliveries for tomorrow.

 _‘Wonderful_ ,’ he thinks wryly, pinching the space between his eyebrows to quell his irritation.

Somehow, he had forgotten to register his agent’s real name in place of Hayashi Holdings. Except this has been the name registered in his phone for about a year now, so he’s not sure what excuse he’s falling back on anymore. For as hard a leash they choked him with, he couldn’t remain _entirely_ ungrateful for their rough schedule. A chaotic business had to remain on its toes, and that included the ‘underling’ workers as well.

“Here.”

Yusuke’s handed (or rather _thrown_ ) a second towel that day. It’s more of a dishrag and reeks of coffee. He looks up, offended, but maybe it’s just leftover frustration from his own little mishap.

“You plan on getting sick?”

“No,” but he squeezes the fabric of his shirt with the rag anyway. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be ordering anything; I have somewhere I’m needed.”

Barista scoffs, “Well you’re one to sit still.” But his words are not taunting. In fact, they’re, dare he say, sympathetic. “We’re open until evening,” (‘ _take the train before night’_ ) “so you’re welcome back anytime. Show me one of your paintings and I’ll put in a free bowl.”

Yusuke blinks once. Twice. Did he hear that right? A free bowl of curry in exchange for a painting? Surely this couldn’t be a scam...

“Get going then. I don’t want to hold you from whatever it is.”

...Except he really doesn’t want to leave. He finds solace from the wooden walls and older furniture to the careful alignments of jars and coffee machines, and even the faint drone of the TV hanging over the sink. The barista himself, despite his sarcasm, had addressed him with genuine pleasantries, a stark contrast to Akechi’s.

(And he would have to, eventually, thank Akechi for mentioning Yongen-Jaya)

“Of course,” and he’s on his feet again, a thank you on his lips as he turns from the door—

“Take an umbrella,” barista offers, gesturing to the small stand in the corner with a naked wall. Had this painting been for this person, it would have looked lovely right there.

Yusuke’s fingers curl around the handle, and then he halts. “Are you sure? I’ll return it tomorrow—”

“Keep it; I have way too many of those,” his lips curl into a small smile. It is... not a bad smile. At all. “Just stay dry.”

...It must be contagious. For the first time that day, Yusuke feels a grin of his own. “I will. Thank you.”

Maybe it’s because he can’t shrug off Leblanc’s atmosphere, but he swears he sees a break in the clouds. Later he’ll come to regret not getting the barista’s name sooner. But as for now, he listens as the rain sings its third stanza, footfalls clapping into the accumulating puddles littered in the back alley.

Maybe he wasn't _entirely_ unlucky that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE** keep an eye on those tags. I will be putting warnings at the beginning of chapters, but there will be things added the further I go into this story. So for your own sake, please pay attention to them.
> 
> Kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscribe, whatever are highly appreciated and are motivation to get this updated a lot quicker than its intended due date (hint, hint).


	2. Chapter 2

There was a fine, invisible line between the arts and business. To Yusuke, art should never be used for profit nor was it something to be graded. A perception of whether a piece of work was profitable differed from one person to the next. The commissioned pieces Okumura had requested are, to Yusuke, worth payment. But would the artist have created something meaningful had they not been restricted by a prompt?

Mitarai Shinnosuke is the assistant to the director of the Japanese Art Support Foundation, a man who was clearly granted much more power than he needed. Each commission form would be sent to the lower agents, double-checked by Mitarai, and carried back to the workers.

Had Yusuke not known him, he would never have associated Mitarai with art. The very waiting room was polished with wooden side tables that practically gleamed when the light struck them at the right angle

(although that day there were no rays of sun slanting through the shades)

crammed at the end of a row of uncomfortably hard chairs. A tv hung on the opposite wall, its face alive with moving images of recent news, but its voice is mute. For once he’s caught them broadcasting actual events. The captions flash across the screen in time with the news reporter’s lips.

‘... _investigation teams have been sent to explore these districts. Tourist spots such as Takeshita in Harajuku will be closed until further notice. There are reports that the murders have also taken place in Setagaya. Citizens who live in these areas are to remain indoors after_ —’

“Kitagawa?”

His attention rips from the quiet TV to a young man standing in the doorway. Yusuke does not smile. When Mitarai _physically_ left his office to grab him, it was never good news. Or so that had seemed to be the case. He graces him with a stiff nod, grabbing the impressionist painting before falling in-step behind him. This hallway is just as bare as its waiting room, and with all the art Hayashi Holdings received, he doesn’t understand why everything is kept as bare as possible.

‘ _Because he only saw art as a moneymaker.’_

“How are you this evening, Kitagawa-kun?” Mitarai does not meet his gaze, and Yusuke’s left staring at the back of his head. Short dark brown hair, the temples of his glasses looped over his ears. Admittedly, Yusuke much preferred when Kawanabe Akio was in the office. Not his assistant. “I was able to find the third painting as soon as I sent you the message.”

He waits as Mitarai opens the door, welcoming him into an even more uptight office space with uncolored walls. The black leather couch brackets the short glass table, and further at the center of the room, a few feet away from the wall, is a beige desk stacked beneath a computer monitor, some office supplies, and a name tag etched on a gold plaque. At least the two chairs were far more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room.

He sets the painting aside, unblinking when Mitarai plucks it up with a carelessness he always seemed to reserve for the arts and uncaring where he deposits it. From where he sits, Yusuke can see a few papers strewn on the desk with a check paperclipped to their upper right corner. His eyes run over the memo line.

‘ _Strange_ ,’ he frowns, leaning back as Mitarai takes his seat. ‘ _The check should be made out to Hayashi Holdings_...’

“Are you alright? The mistake today is something I’d expect from our newer recruits, not you,” Mitarai asks. It’s faux concern, somehow sounding _less_ worried than when he was with Kawanabe.

Yusuke tries to avoid staring at the forms, at the words that were supposed to be on the memo. “An amateur mistake, I’m aware,” he responds automatically. “I assure you that Okumura Haru was not displeased. As a customer, she was rather understanding.”

The papers scrunch loudly. Mitarai tucks them under one of the legs of the computer monitor. “Okumura is a kind young woman. It would be unlike someone of her caliber to hold a grudge over this. Which leads me to why I called you on such late notice.”

More admonishing. Just what he was expecting...

“Kitagawa-kun, how long has it been since you last submitted artwork?”

Oh. Truth be told, “I’m unsure.”

“I see, I see,” Mitarai sits back in his seat, arms folding across his chest. “Kawanabe-san and I have kept you quite busy. But we’ve been receiving requests for a specific style of art. You tend to favor the abstract genre, correct?”

 _Impressionism_ , his thoughts correct. He holds his tongue, opting to nod in response. Back in school, Yusuke had studied and tried his own take on abstract drawings, but he wasn’t sure if he could call them his forte.

Mitarai’s eyes light up. “Then this will be perfect. We can exclude you from these delivery errands until you submit the finished work. This alone will be worth approximately 50000 yen, so it’s important you dedicate as much of your time as you can.”

“50000 yen...?” Yusuke echoes. His fingers grip his knees, mind spinning from such a generous number. He’s torn. On one hand, he would be able to dedicate his time to art. On the other, he _would_ be producing art, but not for himself. Hayashi Holdings’ commission logs were infamous for being rather picky. They had a reputation to uphold, and he knows both Kawanabe and Mitarai would be displeased if he failed to meet them halfway.

”Of course you’d only be receiving about 25% of the payment,” Mitarai continues. “Though depending on the feedback, we could always look into increasing that percentage. After all, we don’t want one of our artists to get rusty, would we?”

‘ _I don’t need a push from this company to paint_.’ But to create art, he needed time, and here they were, willing to give him what that necessity. In between running errands, could he dedicate himself to art in the way he wanted? Yusuke leans forward, elbows digging into his legs.

“Is there a reason you’re requesting me?” he finds himself asking.

Mitarai’s unreadable gaze is heavy before looking away to push at the power button on the monitor. The computer hums to life. “You’re far more equipped for vaguer prompts than both the younger and older students. I’m willing to put in a notice for Kawanabe tonight so you can start as soon as tomorrow,” he slides the mouse, fingers dancing along the keyboard. “We’d be looking for a submission by the end of the month.”

He inwardly flinches. “Two weeks...”

“Is that a problem? If it’s paint you’re worried about, we can supply you with the best brands.”

Two weeks should have been plenty of time for someone with their head submerged in art world for every passing hour. But he was no longer that ‘someone’. Yusuke does nothing to fill the drag of silence between them. ‘ _Say something_ ’, his mind urges, but the words catch at the back of his throat.

“Tell you what...” he reaches for the monitor again. “I’ll send you the email, but I’ll wait until the end of tomorrow for your final decision,” something flickers in his eyes, dying out just as it comes and Yusuke’s _sure_ he imagined it. “But bear in mind if you turn down this opportunity, we’ll have to resort to rearranging your shifts. Which means less time for drawing and artwork and more work at the museums in Tokyo and even neighboring prefectures. A 50000-yen opportunity does not come often, and it’d be a shame if you had to help us come up with that money on small paychecks.”

“I understand...”

Except he doesn’t. Was this a threat? That if he didn’t make the painting for money, then he would have to spill frugal pay to slowly crawl to their desired amount?

“Furthermore, I’d be willing to let today’s mishap slide should you choose to help with this commission.”

His heart stutters in his chest. He should have known that error would not be swept aside so easily. There was a catch to this – as there always was with anything regarding Hayashi Holdings.

Hadn’t this meeting dragged on long enough?

Mitarai sighs, but he does not get up from his seat. “It’s getting late. You should take the trains home before the rush hour, Kitagawa-kun.”

“Of course,” Yusuke catches himself standing _too_ quickly. He backpedals with a bow at the waist, searching for the right thing to say to mask such hastiness. “Thank you, Mitarai-san. I will not keep you waiting.”

His smile is plastic. Unpleasant.

(Yusuke does not miss the way his hand scrabbles for the checks crammed under the leg of the monitor.)

“I know you won’t, Kitagawa-kun.”

He tries not to think about the barren walls or how Mitarai seemed more focused on the money than the artwork as the door closes behind him. The walls devoid of paintings does not quell his stomach. This very section of the building was stiff with the importance of money, how money came first before the upcoming students. His feet carry him in a fast-walk, and he prays to whatever is listening that he won’t have to come back here for another day or three for any reason.

Yusuke makes sure to grab the barista’s umbrella on the way out.

* * *

 

While he’s stuck between the wall and a group of people on the train-ride home, his phone exclaims loudly. He fumbles for the switch, flicking it to the ‘Silence’ option at the sudden looks he receives from his less-than-pleased neighbors. There’s a small red number hovering over the email icon.

Perhaps it’s because he’s surrounded by other people so he already _felt_ light-headed, but Yusuke is beginning to wish there was a seat or _something_ behind him that he could collapse into. His fingers instead grasp tighter at the strap dangling from the cart ceiling, tapping at the screen with his free hand.

He skims it, eyes raking over the message for any weird fonts or emphasized points. Yusuke’s mouth slowly dries.

 _50000 commission_  
_[Sent: 17:43.]_

_[Name: ??_

_Canvas size: 36x48.  
Description: Something of the unknown, something no one has ever seen before. I want it to be of the people talked about in the rumors going around all of Japan. I want proof that they exist and that they are the ones responsible for changing hearts.’_

**_I want a painting of the Phantom Thieves._ ** _]_

(and below that...)

_‘Please respond to this by 23:59.  
Thank you, Kitagawa Yusuke,_

_Mitarai Shinnosuke  
Assistant Director of Hayashi Holdings’_

His phone screen blinks to sleep. He catches his reflection, glimpses unkempt hair that curls against his cheeks from the humidity of the rain, feels the slight tickle of it against his neck when he looks away. But above that, he saw his own blank expression. His mind can’t conjure up the name of the emotions he felt upon viewing his own empty face, but it felt numb. _Everything_ felt numb.

“What an amusing prank,” he mumbles to himself.

But it’s not a prank.

And he knows it.

_(I know you won’t, Kitagawa-kun)_

How ironic this all was…

...He just missed the large canvases that were on sale a week ago.

* * *

 

The interesting thing about panic was how it had such a knack for attacking at the worst of times.

He’s not immune to panic attacks – and this is _not_ one of them – but it can keep him awake well into the dead of night. The hour hand was resting comfortably on the three the last time he checked the clock. A quarter past three and Yusuke was stuffing his keys in his pocket with a tiredness that hung on his shoulders but eluded his grasp.

Overall, his living space wasn’t _bad_. A small apartment that used curtains instead of doors to section off the two rooms: a makeshift ‘studio’ and a bedroom with a connecting washroom. There was no electronics such as one of those plasma televisions. He had been granted wi-fi and a laptop he hardly used, and they insisted more on working than sitting down on an equally absent sofa to watch the news.

Yusuke didn’t complain.

He contemplates rummaging through the cabinets in the small kitchen before leaving. It was too late to take a train out to Shinjuku, but Yusuke was not much of a drinker anyway. He would have much preferred to eat than consume alcohol until he could no longer think of the prompt that was keeping him from sleeping.

...Although not being able to think of the email would be _wonderful_.

The outside air of Shibuya is just as quiet as the elevator ride from the 2nd floor to the 1st, a light spray shimmering down from the clouds that blot out the stars. Not enough to need an umbrella, but enough that he should probably duck into a store less he return home with a wet head. The lights and shutters of the city would close at around 20:00, but the buildings never collectively fell asleep. At least, not normally. Now, it seems he’s the only one awake... if not for the konbini adjacent to a gaping alleyway.

For a while he wanders aimlessly, playing back the events of the day before pausing yet again on those cursed words

( **I want a painting of the Phantom Thieves** )

and the familiar well of frustration burns in his chest. His teeth grit together (whether from the cold air or prickling irritation, he’s not sure – perhaps both) and he tugs his jacket closer. His foot accidentally scrapes into a leftover puddle from the earlier downpour, and he tries not to inwardly scold himself for wearing his ‘Museum Tour’ shoes for a casual walk instead of the worn loafers that were currently resting at the foot of his bed.

He recognizes the flowers on the windowsill all too well.

Shoving aside the annoyance of the water bleeding into his sock, he stares up at the wet panel of ‘Okumura’s Café’. He steps closer to the windows, shielding a hand against the glass. The baroque painting is on the wall he had selected, but he can’t see the others from where he stands.

Ah. He never did help Okumura hang them up, had he?

Perhaps Niijima helped her; they had seemed rather close.

Or maybe it was Akechi—

Yusuke’s eyebrows knit together. Akechi had been partially responsible for his trip to Yongen-Jaya that earned him a free umbrella and a promise of a bowl of curry if he shared one of his drawings. But Akechi had also dropped some interesting words himself.

“Before night...” he mutters to no one in particular. What was so important about getting out of Yongen before it turned dark?

Despite his curiosity tugging at him like an insistent child, he knows it’s impossible to take the trains now. And a car was out of the question – taxi or no. He was not going to waste a few handfuls of yen just to satisfy his puzzlement over something that was undoubtedly nothing.

But he _does_ wonder if there was a connection between Akechi and the barista. It had not been a mere coincidence, or rather that’s what Yusuke wishes to believe.

“ _Mraw_!”

He does a double take, head spinning to the source of the voice. In the dark of the night, he failed to see one living creature among the bushels of flowers. “A... cat?”

The cat gives another ‘meow’ in response, as if answering his musings. Its fur is as black as the sky save for the white muzzle, sharp blue eyes watching him cautiously. There’s no collar around its neck, but its pelt seemed well kept. They must have loved this cat deeply to let it wander about without feeling the need to have it wear a tag of sorts.

“Is your home nearby?” it’s the fatigue talking, but Yusuke doesn’t care.

He reaches for it slowly, and the cat responds by lunging from the window sill, pads of its feet clapping softly against the sidewalk. Yusuke must be imagining things, but he swears it looks back at him once over his shoulder before bounding away.

Yusuke watches in silence, the feeling of confusion a stark contrast to the ire he felt seconds ago. He waits as it rounds the corner before turning. It probably was not wise to linger around Okumura’s café. As far as he knew, there were no cameras installed, but the last thing he needed was to be caught peering through the windows or messing with the floral arrangements.

“What’re you doing up so late?”

 _That_ makes him jump, heart sprinting to his throat. Twice in a row of being startled... It must have been a new record.

Niijima is dressed in the uniform he saw her in that afternoon. He notes the pistol snug in its holster and is somewhat relieved to see her hand is not resting on it. Her face is neutral, unbetraying of the curiosity stitched into the question she asked. Huh... Had she not been on duty earlier that day? Why was she on a night shift?

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers with honesty.

She nods, but it’s as if she’s trying to lure out more. “Was that cat yours?” (He shakes his head.) “I see. That’s... unfortunate. We’ve seen it roaming the streets around here at this exact time nearly every night. I started to think its owner was a frequent visitor to Haru’s café.”

Yusuke hums, eyes sliding back to the flowers. They bob their heads to the light touches of the shower, and if he listened closely, he would hear the beat of oncoming rain. He should _really_ look for some place to go... or retreat to his home and sit for another few hours until sleep decided to be merciful.

“I’m glad I ran into you, despite it being so late,” Niijima says. She gestures in the direction of the konbini down the street. “Seeing how you’re not busy, would you care to come with me? I wanted to apologize for earlier.”

He tilts his head in confusion but follows her anyway. Her posture is stiff, and he can’t imagine walking with such taut shoulders must be comfortable. At this point, Niijima probably had it hammered in that she should _always_ look on-guard. That was how police training went... right?

“What is there to apologize for?” he asks instead. Sure the ropes of training in the academy were interesting, but there were other more pressing matters to discuss.

The doors slide open. Niijima waits, allows him to walk in first. “My partner, Akechi Goro. He didn’t have any business cornering you like that this afternoon.”

Yusuke frowns at the aisles, more so in confusion than genuine annoyance. The cashier on duty pays them little mind, too absorbed in something playing on his phone. “I could hardly call it cornering.”

“Right...” she mumbles. “But he did mention Yongen-Jaya to you, didn’t he?”

He had. Twice. And something about taking the train before it grew dark. More importantly, Niijima had looked none too pleased at the mention of that district. “It was quiet,” he says, distracting himself with the rows of snacks stocked up on the shelves. Nothing of interest save for a few jagariko and pocky containers... His wallet could take a little strain. “There was nothing suspicious.”

“I’m reluctant to believe that,” Niijima counters. She waits for him to finish, leading him to the checkout. It seemed she wasn’t going to get anything... even though it was Niijima who brought him here in the first place.

The silence between them tells Yusuke that whatever they were going to discussed, should not be uttered in the face of an ignorant cashier. (What’s amusing about this whole ordeal is the way the cashier perks up when he recognizes one of his customers is a police officer. He thanks Yusuke when the exact change is placed on the counter, makes sure to bid them both a good night.)

Niijima’s shared suspicion of Yongen-Jaya was questionable. It had been far more welcoming than his first time walking through a place such as Shinjuku.

More importantly: Had she really confronted him just to apologize about Akechi Goro?

“This way,” she says once they’re outside. Then, after giving the bag a glance. “That’s all you’re going to eat?”

“Yes.” Was it really that strange?

“Oh,” she blinks. “Okay then.”

He soon recognizes the alleyway and he wonders how he missed the police cruiser. The headlights blink to life as she unlocks the door. This was certainly bending the rules of police duty, he thinks as he slides into the passenger’s seat, stuffing the small bag onto the ground. Though he supposes it didn’t matter; Niijima was with the law, so technically she wasn’t breaking anything. His wallet is at least 400 yen lighter with a few extra 5s and 1s, but that’s fine.

Yusuke notes the arsenal of devices plugged into the outlet, the ‘walkie-talkie’ like device’s red light blinking lazily. It’s an intricate setup, but one far too complicated for his liking.

“Sorry, I still have to properly introduce myself,” Niijima says once she’s clambered behind the wheel. “I’m Niijima Makoto, a close friend of Haru’s,” a pause. “She seemed worried after you left.”

Yusuke makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Was she?”

Her head dips in a slight nod. “Haru appreciates all your help. But I think she’s suspicious of Yongen-Jaya as well.”

There it was again.

“About that...” he peels his gaze from the window. “Yongen-Jaya was mentioned on the news this evening. Is that the reason you are so adamant to keep me from going there?”

“It’s not just you, Kitagawa-kun,” Niijima insists, eyes hardening at the steering wheel. “Everyone knows how dangerous it’s become. It’s silly to take word from a bundle of rumors, but when you have the news and the very police force concerned, it becomes an issue. Akechi Goro specializes in investigation, so it was vital to bring him along.”

So this was, in its own way, an interrogation. Niijima was far less forceful, but the core of her words remained the same. She was going off the basis of his and Okumura’s mutual respect. To think he’d be discussing the dangers of ‘infamous’ Yongen-Jaya with a cop at 3 in the morning.

“You didn’t find anything.” It’s not a question.

“No.”

...Nor was it his business.

“Would you care to tell me why it’s not safe to be in Yongen-Jaya at night?”

Niijima regards him with a wary look. “I figured someone such as yourself would know. Do you plan to go at this hour?”

He shakes his head, but he’s unable to suffocate his desire to visit when the sun took the day. A small area should not be crawling with murderers or thieves, and if he were being honest with himself, there was nothing worthy of stealing either. There were no high-class clothing stores or jewelry markets – just traditional food vendors and a run-down theater. So truly, no one had business in Yongen after hours.

“You don’t look like someone who’d take risks, Kitagawa-kun. But I guess this is no longer classified information since it made rounds in the news,” she sighs. He realizes it then that she’s just as tired as he is – maybe more. There is the beginning of dark circles under her eyes that he now notices as she drags her hand down her face. “Yongen-Jaya is where the first heart was stolen.”

 _‘Stolen heart_...?’ his mind echoes. That word was familiar, and indeed he had seen it sprinkled on the advertisements in the terminals and even on the billboard outside the museum in Ueno. He was ashamed to admit that he hardly paid the details any mind; it was as if blanks had been injected into his memory.

“Well, it’s... a little more complicated than that,” her eyebrows furrow slowly, as if she’s trying to sort through a tangled web of classified cases he had no business of knowing. “People speculate this isn’t the first time it happened and that the history of this heart-stealing goes a handful of years back. If anything, they ‘started up again’. Which is why I wanted to know if you saw anything suspicious while you were in Yongen today.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to go there yourself?” he doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but there had been nothing suspicious. Unless an expensive bowl of curry was anything to be ‘wary’ of. Yusuke would hold his thoughts on that until after he tried it.

“I have,” Niijima responds coolly. “But I assumed since you and Haru were acquaintances, things would be less awkward.” she glances to the time on the station channel. “It’s getting late. Do you need a ride back?”

He _is_ tired, and the rain seemed to have picked up. Riding in a warm vehicle would certainly beat out trudging his feet through accumulating puddles as precipitation began to drum on the hood and roof of the car. Yet Niijima was looking for answers – and he had none. “No thank you,” he finds himself answering. The lock on the door pops as he tugs at the handle. “This conversation is not benefitting either one of us.”

Her lips part as if to tell him to wait, or to give him a final warning about Yongen or make another mention of Akechi Goro. But that is _not_ what she says. “I’ll see you later then. Sorry for taking so much of your time.”

She apologized quite a bit... “Likewise,” Yusuke says, mouth twitching in discomfort at the chill of the rain. “Thank you for the brief respite from this unpleasant weather.”

“Take care, Kitagawa-kun,” even her smile is controlled. Fascinating.

It isn’t until he’s well down the road does the cruiser pull out of the alleyway and veer off in the opposite direction. Niijima Makoto had been pleasant, but if Yusuke could choose, he’d rather not speak with her when her mind had narrowed in on her case.

For a moment, he wonders if she had been the one to send the request. The memo left in the email had been rather adamant about receiving a painting with a Phantom Thief. And regarding hearts, no one had seen anyone physically _steal_ one before. Having a painting such as that could work to Niijima’s advantage if she was trusted with such knowledge about supernatural cases. Though Niijima did not seem to be the person to invest 50000 in such a complex painting. Although he could have asked her about the Phantom Thieves...

...or he could visit Yongen-Jaya himself. Perhaps the inspiration he’d need for this task would be there.

Just

(he stifles a yawn as shoves the key into the lock of the building’s front door)

some other night.

He doesn’t bother to put away the snacks from the store.

* * *

 

 **YUSUKE [7:11].** I would like to do the commission.

 **HAYASHI HOLDINGS [9:23].** Thank you, Kitagawa. I knew you would. Here, this website may be of use. You’re free to ignore the childish requests. Just look to see if they list any names or locations for you to visit.

* * *

Yusuke would be lying if he said he _didn’t_ find it odd that Mitarai frequented the Phantom Aficionado Website. The blinding neon red and black color motif was not something he’d want to stare at while tucked in bed. With the backdrop of Okumura’s counter, it’s a little more tolerable. Just a little.

**_Do you believe in the Phantom Thieves?_ **

**> YES 66.7%  
>NO**

[uh this question has been up for a while]  
[Phantom THieves? LOLOL]  
[laaaame]  
[Steal my ex’s heart]  
[dont put that shit here]

...It would appear the website was skilled at bringing in immature children. He searches for any names, any mention of Yongen or of popular tourist attractions. Frustration gnaws him as he scrolls through more and more ignorant comments. ‘ _This is turning out to be an utter waste of time’_ , he shuts off the screen, blinking hard to clear the blinding spots that stubbornly remain in his vision.

He had a color motif: Red and black. It seemed anything associated with these Phantom Thieves always linked back to that combination. Never the sanguine red that ran through living beings’ veins nor the color planted at the heart of gemstones such as rubies or garnets. Bright, proud colors and a black backdrop.

Often red was symbolic of anger or love, but here he senses passion. Not the passion shared between two lovers; this was for the joy of a thrill, a heist. Easy to capture with paints if he had the right reference.

A passionate painting of a Phantom Thief...

It sounded impossible.

...They wanted something no one had seen before... He could always scroll through the bookstore in Jinbocho and find something surreal to draw from the tomes. But that would be a cheap cop out, and Yusuke was not known for delivering work that wasn’t at 100%.

“I wonder who would ask for something like this,” Okumura wonders bringing a hand to her chin thoughtfully. There’s a sprinkle of powdered sugar on the front of her apron from the pastries she had been carrying. “Could it be a prank?”

Yusuke shakes his head, stuffing the phone in his back pocket. “If it is, then they are very careless of money.” Knowing his luck, if Yusuke mockingly auctioned off 50000 yen to an artist, he would have received the final product... and then continue to be in debt for the rest of his life or possibly with a lawsuit for cheating someone of their job.

Not having to worry must be a wonderful feeling.

“Oh, when you left yesterday...” she carefully aligns one of the fruit tarts with a gloved hand before looking to him. “You didn’t happen to see an animal around the café, did you?”

Huh. “I did see something last night,” he pauses. “a black cat.”

“I see... He comes to visit a lot and never lets me get too close. I’ve bought a small bag of cat food for him, but I don’t think he’s too fond of it,” Okumura shakes her head, hair bouncing against her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to derail the conversation, but you seem very tired lately, Kitagawa-kun. Are you sure you should be taking on such a task?”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists gently. “I have dealt with challenges vaguer than this.”

“Then would you allow me to help? I don’t know anything about the Phantom Thieves myself, but I can always talk to Mako-chan about some of their history. She knows a lot more about them than I—”

Something rings loudly from the backroom, vibrating against a wooden surface loudly.

“Excuse me, I need to take that,” and she hurries off. A few seconds later: “This is Okumura Café, how can I help you?”

Yusuke reaches for his bag (his coat, salvaged thanks to Okumura hangs on his shoulders), pulling out a fresh new sketchpad and one of those cheap 2B pencils from the konbinis. He was going to need a few empty pages this time – even if he had to settle for a cheap pencil.

A quick search through the internet reveals that there were ‘calling cards’. Befitting, he muses, for a thief that supposedly stole hearts. On one side: Red and black, a poorly drawn impish face with a top hat, and Yusuke can’t help but raise an eyebrow. _This_ is what the Phantom Thieves were sending to their targets? On the back, the message. The names are blurred out, but he supposes that didn’t matter

( _who were they targeting?)_

for now. It was already daring to allow people to share images of calling cards, _physical evidence_ , across websites. Or maybe these weren’t real and just mock imitations created by the people who frequented that website.

Yes, that made sense.

He finds himself doodling their hideous signature, erasing a stray line here, a sharp curve there. The cartoon face was sneering more than it was smiling, teeth like jagged glass. Coupled with the red top hat, nothing looked more out of place. Hats such as those recalled rich people or even gentleman thieves. This abomination was the farthest thing from classy...

...If only he brought a red pencil.

The clock on the wall ticks quietly against the scratching of the pencil on paper. Okumura’s voice is muffled by the door as she attends to whoever was on the other line.

As he works, he wonders if the café in Yongen was like this one in the mornings. Maybe there were more customers or maybe there were none. Yusuke didn’t know, but he can’t help but wonder.

And he _really_ hopes these cards were fake.

It isn’t until he’s been drawing aimlessly for about four minutes when he realizes the clock is holding its breath. Frowning, he drags his eyes to where it rests on the wall. Maybe it broke again...

Silence meets him on all sides.

Okumura has been awfully quiet.

Yusuke looks to the door. It was rude to shout for her (and he was hardly one to raise his voice), so he walks over cautiously. Her back is turned, mobile phone pressed to her ear. And she remains that way. She stands, he stares. She doesn’t move, nor does he.

...Something wasn’t right.

His hand twists the handle, ignoring the look the “Staff Only” letters seem to give him, and steps in. “Okumura-san? Is everything alright?”

She doesn’t acknowledge him.

“If they’re being difficult, there is no reason to hang up on them,” he assures, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder—

—and he chokes as his fingers faze through her. He pulls away as if burned, back crashing against the ajar door. It swings open and he fumbles for his footing. His hand catches the end of the knob before he falls flat on his rear.

_What on earth—_

His heart screams at him the entire time he pulls himself to his feet, nerves too clogged by panic to feel the pain that was sure to bite later. He doesn’t think to grab his stuff before he’s barreling out onto the streets.

Numbness runs through him, roots him to the spot.

Some are stopped mid-step, others are with friends or talking on the phone like Okumura. But they all share one thing in their immobility. Frozen smiles, still unreadable expressions... He sees them all before he’s backing into the café. For emphasis or for the need to hear noise against the dull beat of silence, he slams the door shut. The bell shouts in protest, swinging wildly from its perch.

Yusuke grasps his upper arms, clenches his eyes shut as he digs his thumbnails into the skin. Hard.

The sound eludes him.

What the _hell_...

It was quiet. It was too quiet. And the longer he stood there in the silence, the more stir-crazy he was going to go with his tangled thoughts twisting in and out of his head. If he stayed in this spot, would something come for him? Would something that thrived in utter quiet swallow him the minute he let his guard down?

No. He isn’t going to risk that.

Yusuke doesn’t know why, but he grabs the sketchpad, shoves it into his bag before he runs back out. He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s doing, but he couldn’t stay in one spot. There had to be _someone_ unfrozen, someone just as confused as he was.

But there wasn’t.

Nobody had the same terror in their eyes, nobody was crying for help, and nobody was coming up to him to stop him from running like a maniac through Central Street.

Shibuya Crossing is both crowded and uncrowded

(a chill lances up his spine as he accidentally runs through someone)

and he stops at the center of the crosswalk.

“Is anyone there?” his panic speaks for him.

His phone vibrates in response.

(Service? He was getting _service_...?)

The number... he doesn’t know the number...

The phone quivers in shivering cupped hands as he taps the green phone icon. “...Who is this?” Yusuke manages, inwardly cringing at the way his voice trembles on the words. “What’s going on?”

A beat of silence.

“... _You seek inspiration..._ ” it says, voice like gargled nails.

Shaking. He’s shaking. His legs are jittery and prepared to give out from under him the minute this ‘voice’ begins spewing threats. The retort (“Stop this foolishness! Who are you?!”) lodges in his throat. It hurts to swallow.

“... _Hayashi Holdings... diamond mine... geologist... I hope this helps. Good luck with your painting._ ”

“ _What_?” his voice hisses out of him harshly.

The line cuts.

Sound bursts into his ears and someone bumps into him harshly. Yusuke whips around, hoping the look on his face shows that he’s none too pleased, but they don’t even look at him.

“Hey, get off your phone and move!” someone else snaps.

“Yeah, get out of the way! Light’s ‘bout to turn red!”

His teeth grit, and he pushes through the crowd of people towards... towards... he doesn’t know. He walks, brushing against others uncaring to bid apologies or ask if they’re alright when he makes someone stumble.

‘ _Hayashi Holdings is... a diamond mine...?’_ he slowly recognizes the roof of Shibuya’s train station. His fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, right above his jittery heart. ‘ _Who were they?_ ’

What did they mean?

Something tells him it was a foolish idea to rush to Hayashi Holdings. That same ‘something’ tells him he’s going to get hurt. It tells him, it tells him, it tells him...

...that he neglected his curiosity yesterday, so why not humor it today?

‘ _No... What am I doing?_ ’

But he’s swiping his Suica pass for the platform that would take him to Ueno before he can stop himself.

And he knows it’s too late to turn back the minute the doors close behind him.

‘ _How did they know about the commission...?_ ’

Nobody answers. He cannot answer his own thoughts when his conscience doesn’t know.

But he would.

Soon.

(He hopes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mitarai Shinnosuke is not my OC. He is a character from the P5A that remained unnamed so I gave him the most original name on the face of Japan.  
> Much thanks for the kudos and comment. Hopefully this 6k word update was worth it and I want to say that the God damn slow-burn exposition buildup is done. There will be some familiar faces in the next chapter, so stay turned.
> 
> What're your thoughts?


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